


getty up, steady up

by lanterngoesswingingby



Series: take me back to yours, that will be fine [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Concussions, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Roger Taylor (Queen) Being an Idiot, Swearing, Vomit Mention, i can fully believe that thats a tag, this isn't explictly shippy so u do u my lovelies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanterngoesswingingby/pseuds/lanterngoesswingingby
Summary: When Roger asked if he could borrow Freddie’s phone charger earlier that morning, and Freddie had responded with “knock yourself out, darling”, he hadn't actually meant it in a literal sense.orroger has a small fall down some not so small stairs.





	getty up, steady up

**Author's Note:**

> someone suggested that I write the time mentioned in a previous fic that rog once locked himself in the bathroom with a concussion (because of course he did). i have absolutely no medical knowledge, but here we are kiddos, enjoy x  
> title is from 'bring back that leroy brown' by, of course, queen

When Roger asked if he could borrow Freddie’s phone charger earlier that morning, and Freddie had responded with _“knock yourself out, darling”_ , he didn’t mean literally. Or at least, Roger hoped he didn’t.  


However, he was nothing except willing to go above and beyond, so knock himself out he did. On the staircase. Rather accidentally, in fact. The flat was empty – Freddie was heading out to meet his sister for lunch and would not be back for an hour or so. The door had just closed, in fact, when Roger realised he had forgotten to actually get the charger from Freddie, and he found himself sprinting down the stairs to catch him.  


He made the first four steps. Then he overbalanced. His mind raced in the second that his foot was met with air instead of solid wood, and he spent the following three second in mental overdrive before his lower back met the stairs. This was then followed by a second of _‘fuckedy-ouch’_ before the back of his head decided that it, too, was going to hit the step, and then it was quite blank.  


Roger must have only been out for seconds, but when he returned to semi-clarity the world was tilting quite alarmingly, and he could not for his life remember where he was. The throbbing at the base of his skull let itself be known gradually, which was rather nice of it – however, his stomach was not so patient, and he promptly threw up what (thankfully) little he had had that day, not noticing or caring where it landed. At that point he may have cried a little. When recounting this to Freddie, Brian and John later that evening, he missed that part out.  


The sensible part of his brain knew he was probably, at best, mildly concussed. At worst, he was quite possibly dying, which felt far more apt as he struggled to get grip on the stairs and find his phone in his pocket.  


Call someone. Right. Only—  


His phone screen remained firmly black, swimming in front of his eyes like a taunt. When his fingers managed to fumble for the ‘on’ switch, there was a faint red symbol.  


“Fuck. _Fuck_.” He struggled to form the words, his mouth working disconcertingly slower than his brain, which was basically crawling at this point. Roger made the executive decision to stand at that second, which was, like all of his decisions leading to this point, a rather large mistake. Almost immediately he fell back on his arse again, which sent a shooting pain up his lower back causing him to swear once more.  


“Okay. Okay.”  


His stomach chose that particular moment to churn, and he decided that, whatever happened next, he would not die on the stairs leading to his flat. He would at least have the dignity to die inside it. Preferably in the bathroom, next to the toilet bowl.  
He could do this. He would do this.  


With great care, Roger shifted himself up onto the step above him, using his arms as resistance and shuffling on his arse. Not his finest moment by far, but Roger Meddows Taylor was fucking _resourceful_. He found himself shutting his eyes against the rapidly swimming outer world, which soothed his head slightly and made it somehow easier to navigate. This was how he proceeded for the better part of the next ten minutes, filling his time with yet more swearing and deep breathing to ease the nausea.  


_‘Fuckedy-ouch’_ , indeed.  


On reaching the bathroom, he used the door handle to pull himself up. As expected, the world decided to shift without his consent, but Roger Resourceful Taylor was prepared, and decided to combat the wave of dizziness by moving as quickly as possible into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it soundly behind him.  


In reality, this took much longer than intended.  


Then he threw up again, thankfully in the toilet.  


_“Fredd-i-i-e-e,”_ he groaned pitifully into his arm, which he had folded beneath himself as a buffer against the cold toilet seat. There was, as expected, no response. He groaned again.  


He was slightly ashamed of the thoughts which followed over the course of the next hour as he sat absolutely still next to the toilet. The vague biological knowledge that he managed to summon told him that it was a Good Sign™ that he no longer felt like he was going to die. It also told him that throwing up twice, and being knocked out in the first place, was erring on the side of Not Good™, but ran out of suggestions at that point. Instead, he decided to curse the fact that the Bulsara family was well-adjusted enough to meet for lunch, and that Brian and John were good enough students that they would actually attend all of their lectures.  


He cursed the fact that he didn’t charge his phone the night before.  


Fucking resourceful, indeed.  


He must have been less aware than previously thought, because everything was suddenly filled with obnoxiously loud knocking.  


“Rog?” More knocking. _“Roger!”_  


“Uh—” He managed, lifting a hand at the closed door. The knocking stopped. Hey, score one for him.  


“Roger, dear, I am seconds away from kicking this door down.” It was Freddie, his voice pitched weirdly high.  


“Yeah, I – I might need a hand,” Roger said, lifting his head slightly from his arms. The throbbing returned with a vengeance.  


“I worked that out, lovey, I saw the stairs.”  


For a second, Roger had the brief image of the stairs being incredibly smug in their violent victory, before he remembered the sick. Ah.  


“Sorry,” he managed, unsure of what else to say. There was a vaguely hysterical chuckle from behind the door, followed by a sigh. The handle rattled.  


“Darling, I need you to open the door now.”  


Of course – he’d locked it. _‘You fucking idiot’_ , Roger thought to himself, before making to push himself up from his position on the floor. To his credit, he made it mostly upright, before his vision swam, and he fell against the bath.  


“Might be a problem with that, actually,” he wheezed, unable to make out Freddie’s next words through the throbbing in his ears.  


“Okay – okay.”  


There was a pause while Roger kept his head firmly between his knees, waiting for the pulsing rhythm to subside slightly. He continued his internal cursing while he waited, getting as far as ‘himself for locking himself in the bathroom while probably concussed’ before he Freddie’s voice outside became clearer.  


“—see you in five then,” he said.  


“Where you goin’?” Roger asked. It came out more like a groan.  


“Nowhere, love, I was just speaking to Deaky. He’s going to unlock the door for us, yeah?”  


Roger nodded, then whined. Loudly.  


“My head fuckin’ _hurts_.”  


This time, the chuckle behind the door sounded less anxious and more genuine.  


“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are darling. Now, if you can make some sort of noise every few minutes so I know you’re not dead, that would be fabulous.”  


Roger scoffed, but agreed.  


“How was your lunch?” The world around him settled a little, and his stomach felt less rebellious than earlier. Score two for Roger Taylor.  


“Well, up until I got home to find the scene from _The Exorcist_ on my stairs, it was quite lovely, yes. Now, can you tell me what the _hell_ happened?”  


“I fell. A bit. And it wasn’t that bad,” Roger protested weakly. The whole situation felt mildly ridiculous, now he thought about it. There was Freddie, stuck outside the bathroom waiting for Deaky to arrive with a set of power tools, and Roger sprawled gracelessly against the bath. He laughed.  


“Oh god, you’ve actually lost it—” Freddie despaired. They were both cut off by the rattle of the door from downstairs.  


“Fred? Ew, what--”  


“Freddie? Roger?”  


John didn’t arrive alone, apparently – Roger felt a weird wave of acceptance wash over him as he realised that Brian had also come to see his lowest moment. And that all of his friends had now seen his vomit on the stairs.  


“We’re up here, lovelies,” Freddie called down. “And ignore the sick – Roger had a bit of a fall, you see.”  


*******  


By the time John, the literal saint, had managed to unscrew the lock from the bathroom door, Roger felt ready to sleep there and then on the floor. A very vague part of his brain knew this was wrong, however, so he remained semi-upright, sprawled against the bath like the absolute picture of grace and decorum. He must have lost track of his thoughts as only a second later Brian’s face came into view right in front of his own, his expression tight and frowny. Roger said as much, poking at his cheek.  


“Rog? Hey, look at me, you okay?” There was a cold hand on his cheek.  


Roger laughed slightly, clasping Brian’s hands. Brian looked doubtful.  


“Can you stand?” He asked. Roger got the idea there wasn’t much choice in the matter and nodded gingerly.  


Brian pulled them both to standing, and suddenly the bathroom tilted and fell out of focus.  


“Woah, woah—” Brian’s voice sounded in stereo and he felt a tight grip on his forearms as his knees felt weak.  


“Um,” Roger managed, breathing heavy for some reason. He did not realise he was sitting back on the floor again until he felt the cold of the bathtub against his cheek as his head fell to the side.  


“Jesus, what did you do—”  


“Does he need a hospital?” That was John, Roger knew – he looked up, willing away the nausea as he noticed the bassist standing awkwardly by the door, in addition to Freddie who had apparently moved from the hallway and was now on the floor beside him. He offered him a smile, which was returned, if slightly less convincingly on Freddie’s part.  


“I did a—a slip.” Roger stated solemnly. There was a snort from somewhere above him, and a fond sigh which made him feel suddenly warm.  


“Yep. Hospital.”  


*******  


“I still can’t believe fell down the fucking _stairs_ , darling. What are you, _eighty_?”  


“And managed to lock himself in the bathroom,” John added, sounding ever so slightly on the wrong side of amused. Roger glared at him; the effect was weakened considerably by the pillow he was clutching to his chest from his position on Freddie’s lap.  


He had finally managed to tell the (mostly) full story a few hours previously. He had grown considerably more coherent upon reaching the hospital, and, all things considering, had managed to come away only with the diagnosis of a mild concussion. Brian in particular had not been amused that Roger did not bother to phone himself an ambulance, or at least tell someone ( _“My phone was out of charge, Brian, it wasn’t a choice.” “Oh, so landlines are suddenly not a thing now, is that it?”_ ), but after being reassured that Roger would make a full recovery within a few weeks, with the promise that he be watched for any worrying changes in behaviour ( _“With Roger? How ever are we meant to tell?”_ John had deadpanned), he was allowed home.  


At that moment, Freddie was currently running a hand gently through his hair, carefully avoiding the brand-new lump just above the base of his head. Roger himself was fiddling with Brian’s curls, who had sat in front of the sofa on Roger’s request. On Freddie’s other side was John, who, dispute protesting Roger shoving his feet onto him, was resting his hand on his legs. Overall, Roger felt very fond, and closed his eyes in contentment.  


He felt a flick on his face.  


“Fuck off,” he mumbled, pressing his face further into Freddie’s legs.  


“Nope. No sleeping.”  


“Fred, I’m pretty sure he’s okay to sleep,” Brian said, sounding a little exasperated. Roger nodded; eyes still closed.  


“Oh no, it’s not that. I just want to hear about how he shuffled up the stairs on his arse again, I could do with another laugh.”  


Roger forced himself to remember the fondness he had felt moments ago as he drifted off to the sound of his friends’ laughter at his own expense.  


Score three and victory, Roger Meddows Taylor.

**Author's Note:**

> i will absolutely always end on fluff, you can count on that!  
> thank you to my wonderful friend for reading through this when I was doubting pretty much everything, and for generally being an all-round gem, you know who you are!  
> and thank you all for reading! i apologise for the medical inaccuracies, except i don't because dammit jim, i'm a writer not a doctor  
> now accepting prompts on my [tumblr](https://lanterngoesswingingby.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


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